


Developed

by the101



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Gallavich, Humor, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:04:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1527329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the101/pseuds/the101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Gallavich AU in which Mickey's been locked up one too many times and doesn't have any margin for errors, and Ian, well, Ian likes to push his luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended Listening: The Blue Van - Silly Boy

Mickey found himself unreservedly bored. A fucking five hour speech about carpet would have been more exciting than sitting behind the counter of the dead store. He thought about heading out for a smoke, but grimaced at the thought of bracing himself against the frigid winter wind for the second time within the hour.

His job, if one could even call it that, was _technically_ the guy in the back room that developed everyone’s film that they dropped off; but today he was alone in the store, meaning he had to sit behind the front counter and try not to off himself due to his boredom that stemmed from the severe lack of customers. Mickey wasn’t really the arty type when the owner hired him, but it was one of the few places that his PO said would take him. Mickey couldn’t really argue; his rap sheet was probably taller than he was, his knuckles actually read ‘FUCK U-UP’, and his latest stunt had landed him in the clink for a year since it had occurred after his eighteenth birthday.

Though the job payed relatively well, he could listen to his own music when he worked without anyone giving a shit, and the whole place was more laid-back than a Grateful Dead groupie in a La-Z-Boy, didn’t mean it wasn’t as dull as ditchwater.

The only person that had entered the damn building all day was the South Side postman that also had the Milkovich house on his route. Each day he came in with a shit-eating grin on his face before cackling, “Mickey Milkovich: a contributing part of society? Hell has frozen over!” (or something along those lines) and dropping the post onto the countertop.

Mickey would always roll his eyes before his middle fingers came flying up and a sour, “Fuck you,” was sneered.

 

He’d held himself back from locking the doors and just laying on the floor, and instead went about stocking the film onto the shelves behind the counter. By brand, by type, by frame count, by speed– you name it, Mickey organized it.

His back was turned when the bell above the door sounded half an hour later and Mickey audibly groaned. “The fuck you want, Jim?” he gritted out, expecting the postman to be back to torment Mickey one last time before he carried on with his day.

 

There was a moment of silence.

 

“Uh, not Jim,” a voice said, a bit of puzzlement within it.

Mickey’s brows pressed together as he shoved the last few boxes of film onto the shelf, a quick glance over his shoulder thrown to the person who entered. “Huh,” Mickey said, slowly clambering off the stepladder he was on, “Didn’t think anyone was dumb enough to _actually_ go outside in this weather.”

The guy shrugged, cheeks stained red from the harsh cold and body bundled up in layers upon layers. “I kind of am an idiot,” he agreed, a little smirk on his face as he walked closer to the counter.

Mickey snorted, eyebrows up as his head kind of tipped down. “So you actually come in here for something? Or did you just want to tell a stranger how stupid you are?”

He watched as the customer let out a slight laugh, head shaking when he said, “Mostly the latter. But I do have this film I wanted to drop off.”

Mickey grunted in response and got out an envelope and a pen. “Film size?” he disinterestedly asked, his gaze strictly on the white envelope before him.

“35 mm.”

“Type?”

“Color.”

“Double or single?”

“Double.”

"Finish?"

"Matte."

“Size?”

“What d’ya got?” the guy asked. Mickey heard the smirk in his voice prior to glancing up and seeing it for himself. And his heartbeat didn’t stammer, that’s for damn sure.

“Uh,” Mickey rasped. He cleared his throat and looked back at the envelope to read the sizes even though he knew them by heart. “4x6, 5x7, 8x10.”

“Which is the cheapest?”

“Obviously the smallest size,” Micky deadpanned, chancing a look up.

The red haired boy hummed in thought before replying, “I usually prefer larger ones, but, yeah, that’ll do.”

 

Mickey tried his best to look void of expression; generally it’s not terribly difficult, but this kid had some major fucking balls to be blurting shit like that out. He went back to ignoring the smirk that seemed to be permanently stuck on the kid’s face and asked, “Phone number?”

“Is this your way of asking me on a date?”

“It’s my way of asking you to fuck off,” Mickey retorted, the calm he usually tries to keep with customers long gone. He quickly wetted his lips, a deep exhale, eyebrows up as he slowly said, “Now are you gonna give it to me, or what?”

He grimaced at his choice of words immediately, as well as the smirk that was radiating off the customer that was practically palpable.

“You can get that later.”

“Last name?” Mickey asked, elated to be on the final line of the form.

“Gallagher.”

“Film,” Mickey drawled, right hand extended out in anticipation.

“Oh,” the Gallagher kid said, kind of like he just realized what was happening. “Sure, yeah,” he quickly muttered, yanking off his gloves and digging into his coat pocket.

He plopped it into Mickey’s hand, fingers lightly brushing the open palm. Mickey yanked back at the sudden contact, the capsule making a clattering sound as it hit the counter and rolled onto the floor. He sighed as he bent over to grab it, wishing more than fucking anything that the owner had shown up today so Mickey could’ve worked in the darkroom in peace.

“Sorry,” Gallagher said, a timid smile on his face when Mickey looked at him. The customer scratched at the back of his neck, quick to look away when Mickey gave him a glare. “So, uh,” he stammered, “When’ll it be ready?”

“Since you’re the only person that’s been in today there’s only a couple of rolls ahead of yours. Two, maybe three days,” Mickey said, the nonchalance returning to his voice. Mickey sealed the envelope, eyes every now and then flicking up to the guy who _still hasn’t fucking left_. “You can pay when you pick it up,” he grunted, turning his back and tossing the envelope onto the back counter.

“Yeah, alright,” Gallagher said, confidence returning to his voice that didn’t go unnoticed by Mickey.

The customer gave Mickey one last look before he turned on his heels and aimed for the doorway. Mickey let out a breath of relief and shoved the pen he was using back into the mug on the counter, his eyes meeting the surface for a moment too long.

A pair of (kind of nice looking, if Mickey was honest) gloves resting on the glass.

Mickey groaned a long, grating groan prior to snatching them up and heaving himself over the counter. His steps were quick to the door and in seconds flat he was out in the frigid January weather; wind and snow pelting at his skin.

“Hey! Gallagher!” Mickey hesitantly shouted down the corridor of the strip mall. The customer was fifty or so feet away, but instantly turned around at Mickey’s voice. “You forgot your fuckin’ gloves,” he loudly said, bouncing from one foot to the other and wishing more than fucking anything he was back inside because _holy fuck_ it was cold.

“Oh,” was kind of halfheartedly replied before the red haired kid came jogging back down the cement. His cheeks were back to red from the cold, breath jagged and visible in the air. “Thanks, man,” he told Mickey, raising them in his own hands with a smile.

“Fucking idiot,” Mickey grumbled as he turned around, his only concern being back inside.


	2. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: The Rolling Stones - Lies

Mickey finds that he actually _likes_ riding the L to work in the early mornings. He thinks that he’d never get sick of riding it alone as the sun is low in the sky, the compartment empty, the only sounds being the wheels on the track below him. He does, though, wish he had his own car because he’s _honestly_ sure that nothing would beat being in your own little metal world for a while.

The only drawback being the price, of course.

Why pay a couple grand _and then_ gas money on top of that when you can jump the turnstile for the L and ride for free?

Just because he’s been trying a little harder to stay out of trouble doesn’t mean he still isn’t a Milkovich.

 

The wind is harsh against his exposed skin when he gets off at his stop (which, admittedly, is only a little way from his apartment, but he definitely does _not_ want to walk in this weather), and he pauses for a moment to pull out a smoke and light it from behind his bare hand. Mickey deeply inhales, holds the smoke, and slowly exhales; watching as the vapor wafts through the air as he slowly walks to work.

+

Mickey had spent the first few hours at work in the darkroom located in the basement of the shop. This is how he preferred things; alone, his own pace, habitual. Mickey was a wont man, the only thing that varied from his day to day schedule was the tape he decided to listen to that day. He had a stack of them at work (they sometimes found their way back home, and other times they stayed in the darkroom for weeks at a time), and today his _Some Girls_ cassette was continuously being rewound and played again on the old boom box the owner had laying around.

He was well aware that they were obsolete in today’s technology obsessed world, but there was something more behind the great music for him. When Mickey’s mom died the only things of hers he had kept (or had even been able to get anywhere near thanks to Terry) were a couple of her tan, leather cases full of cassettes. He’d snatched them up one day when his dad was on a bender and shoved them under his bed because, let’s be real, no one in the Milkovich house even knew what dust rags were; cleaning was of little importance and no one would even think to look under anyone’s bed for _anything_.

He’d almost forgotten about them, but after his time in jail and after he had saved a little money, Mickey moved out– the tapes coming back into his life as he swept his room one last time before leaving for good.

 

Mickey listened to the click of the tape being fully rewound and pressed play again; the infectious beat of _Miss You_ filling the otherwise silent darkroom. His head bobbed to the rhythm as he moved back over to the enlarger he was working at, fingers tapping on the black tabletop after he pressed the button for the timer to burn the image onto the photo paper.

He slid that piece into the developer, shaking the tub a bit until the image began to appear. His body was almost on autopilot as he worked; everything was habitual after a little over a year of working at the shop.

Mickey repeated the process with the next photo and dunked that page into the developer and moved the previous one into the stop bath; shimmying the container for a couple seconds, then waiting thirty more before allowing the image to drip off the remnants and dropping it into the fixer.

And that’s what he did for a while longer; the tape running its course again as he watched strangers' memories appear before his very eyes.

That was another thing Mickey liked about working here; seeing the things people from the South Side _actually did_ outside of their, presumably, damned life. The teenagers that came in usually had photos of themselves and their friends, generally doing whateverthefuck teenagers do and looking, well, happy. The older people that came in always had photos of their family, or their pets, and it amazed Mickey that the folks around the area could _really_ be jovial.

He always thought that he got the short end of the stick when it came to families. Sure, he had Mandy (the only Milkovich that he had ever been somewhat close to), but when it came to Terry and his band of brothers– Well, he’d usually just consider them the misfortune in his life.

 

Mickey was packing a roll of photos into an envelope when the revolving door spun from the opposite side of the room. “Mickey,” the owner, Toby, said. Mickey’s head raised to look at Toby, expectancy on his features. “Gonna take lunch, head out to the front for me,” he said before the door spun around again and Mickey was left in silence.

It took him a couple minutes, but Mickey eventually found the energy to head out to the front of the store. As he stepped into the revolving door he mentally said goodbye to his black walls, red lights, and perpetual fetor of chemicals.

+

Mickey’s been sitting behind the counter for roughly thirty-seven minutes (not that he’s counting or anything), has endured Jim the postman again, and is about ready to claw his eyes out from how _unrelentingly boring_ it is to just sit in an empty store.

But six minutes later ( _thank God_ , only seventeen more minutes until Toby gets back), the bell above the door chimes and Mickey’s attention is snapped over to it instead of staring at the mug full of pens.

 

“Hey, here to pick up my prints,” the guy says, digging for his wallet and not looking up at Mickey’s (he totally wouldn’t admit it if asked, but–) smitten face.

Mickey has to physically shake him self out of it before he evenly asks, “Name?”

“Gallagher,” is easily replied as the customer digs some bills out of a worn out wallet.

Mickey blinks once, twice, three times before he registers that _yeah, he should definitely be getting that_ and turns around to collect himself. He bends down to pull the drawer open and flick through the prints that haven’t been picked up yet, slowly pulling the envelope out that has Mickey’s messy handwriting reading ‘ _GALLAGHER_ ’ on it.

“Eighteen bucks,” Mickey says, tossing the thick envelope onto the counter top– which is enough to finally gain Gallagher’s attention.

“Eighteen?” he asks in bewilderment, “You sure?”

Mickey’s brows press together and a look of ‘are you fucking kidding me’ crosses his face. “Yeah I’m fuckin’ sure,” he tells Gallagher, not caring in the slightest about keeping up with treating the customers well. “Frame count was twenty-five, you doubled ‘em, that’s fifty prints. Fifty prints at twenty cents each is ten dollars. And then you add on our fee for developing and printing in the store. _Voila_. Eighteen dollars.”

“Friends and family discount?”

“You ain’t a friend or family.”

Gallagher looks at Mickey with an amused smirk and Mickey wonders if his face is even capable of another expression, but his dwindling thoughts were cut short when Gallagher says, “Alright, man. Eighteen bucks it is.”

Mickey snorts as Gallagher goes back into his wallet for a few more bills and can’t seem to hold his tongue before he says, “The fuck you gripin’ for anyway? You’re the one that left those fancy-ass gloves here the other day.”

“Nicked ‘em,” Gallagher replies effortlessly and Mickey is suddenly bombarded with ‘Oh, yeah, this kid is South Side, not that ritzy-ass fuck that I pictured him to be’. “Before I forget,” Gallagher says abruptly, “Got this film I wanna drop off, too.”

“You made of damn money or somethin’?” Mickey mutters, mostly to himself, but kind of loud enough to elicit a response from Gallagher.

“You bitchin’ about revenue?” he challenges, one brow up as he sizes up the guy behind the counter.

“The fuck you know about revenue,” Mickey bites back.

“Enough to know that this little shack isn’t gettin’ enough of it and that you _definitely_ shouldn’t be complaining about this place gettin’ more work, since, y’know, more work means you get your paycheck,” Gallagher smugly informs, slapping the bills into Mickey’s hand.

Mickey’s right hand limply holds the bills, eyes flicking about as a million and ten questions hang precariously on his lips. Gallagher gives him a side glance and Mickey snaps out of it, stuffing the bills into the register and digging another form out for the new roll. “Film size?” Mickey asks, his eyes remaining on the form and _not_ on the way Gallagher’s hands move around the capsule in his grasp.

“All the same as before except these are black and white,” the redhead tells him, picking up the discarded envelope from the counter. Mickey is quick to fill out the necessary information and is only slightly distracted by Gallagher who is shuffling through his newly printed photos.

Mickey kind of smiles to himself (but it’s quick to disappear) as he remembers what he had printed days previously. Honestly, he didn’t know what to expect on the film, but it definitely wasn’t pictures of eight or nine other people all shoved into small rooms laughing and fighting and everything in between.

“These turned out good,” Gallagher offhandedly remarked, eyes meeting Mickey’s for a moment.

“What can I say?” Mickey haughtily laughed, “I’m fuckin’ good at what I do.”

“You print these?”

“Yeah,” Mickey scoffed, “We’re on the goddamn South Side. Nobody ‘round here’s got enough cash for an automatic printer.”

There was a lull in the conversation as Gallagher’s attention refocused on his prints and Mickey is slightly horrified over the fact that he’s being _amicable_.

Well, as amicable as it gets for Mickey.

 

“What’s your name?” Gallagher asks, stuffing the photos back into the envelope.

“Go away.”

“Go away? That’s a weird name,” Gallagher laughs like it’s the funniest goddamn thing in the world (and, hey, maybe Mickey thinks it was kind of funny). “I’m Ian,” he says, sticking his hand out for Mickey to shake.

Mickey tentatively takes Ian’s hand, shaking it once before dropping it and muttering, “Mickey.”

“Mickey, eh?” Gallagher says with a smirk. “Fancy a smoke?”

Mickey’s face is quick to contort, “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there. Besides, I gotta fuckin’ work.”

Ian looks like he’s going to accept Mickey’s excuses, but that was before Toby comes barreling through the door and hollering, “Feel free to take your lunch whenever,” before heading into the back room.

 

And _that_ is when Ian’s head lolls over to Mickey, another one of those damn smirks on his face. His eyebrows are up and Ian can practically see the cogs working in Mickey’s head; deciding whether or not to give into him just yet.

Mickey has to admit, Ian is a force to be reckoned with.

“C’mon,” Ian lilts and Mickey sends him a glare. “It’s all just building up at this point. Passive me, aggressive you,” Ian says, his hand gesturing respectively.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish?” Mickey asks in disbelief, only to get a shrug in return. Mickey sighs and tugs the sleeves of his favorite sweater down, the collar up a little higher. He fights the harsh ‘god fucking dammit’ that is on his tongue and instead grits out, “Let me get my fuckin’ coat.”

+

They sit in an abandoned corridor between shops, somewhat protected from the wind and able to smoke their cigarettes without fighting the strong gust. Mickey’s hands are stuffed in the large pockets of his oversized, army green jacket as a cigarette hangs limply in his mouth. He made a mental note to find some gloves to nick as he watched Ian bring the smoke up to his lips.

Ian’s gaze meets Mickey’s and Mickey is hastily looking away; at the wall in front of him, the ceiling, anyfuckingthing but at Ian. It probably would’ve worked, Ian thinks, but Mickey’s hand in the cookie jar expression was not helping his case.

 

Ian is the first to break the silence by saying, “Maybe a little ganja later?”

“Do I look like I need you to get me stoned?” Mickey retorts, voice sour.

Ian raised his hands in defense, cigarette bouncing between his lips as he said, “Just askin’.” He heard Mickey scoff from beside him and hazarded a glance up; watching as Mickey’s red hand moved up to his mouth for a puff. “I mean, I kind of owe you it since I dragged you away from your lunch for this _luxurious getaway_ ,” Ian joked, arms brandishing out to the alley they were in.

That earned a slight laugh off Mickey, his thumb brushing his bottom lip as he sat down on the overturned milk crate by his feet. “S’alright,” Mickey admits, “Was plannin’ on workin’ through lunch anyway.” Not that he had much work to catch up on, besides, his lunch was only an apple and a bag of Doritos.

 

Silence engulfs them once more and Ian takes to glancing at Mickey every once in a while when he thinks Mickey isn’t looking. Mickey, on the other hand, has a constant visual of Ian from his peripheral vision; turning his head to the right and smirking to himself whenever Ian gets caught and his eyes go wide.

Ian’s on his feet a minute later, causing Mickey to glance up at him through his lashes. “I should get going,” Ian said, a thumb lazily thrown over his shoulder. Mickey nods and snuffs out the end of his cigarette, clambering to his feet and slowly walking the length of the alley alongside Ian (well, there’s a few feet between them, but that doesn’t stop the weird feeling both of them get).

Mickey turns right to head back to the shop and Ian goes left, the departure allowing Mickey to let out a long sigh. “Friends and family discount next time?” Ian calls back to Mickey.

He turns back to the redhead, watching him walk backwards with a smirk on his face. “You on fuckin’ drugs?” Mickey yells to Ian, brows pressed down as he watches the boy travel further and further away.

 

When Ian turns around and provides no response, Mickey thinks, ‘Yeah, that kid’s _definitely_ on drugs.’


	3. Impassive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: The Clash - Hateful

It surprises both Ian and Mickey when Ian shows up to the store two days later instead of four like the first time. Ian because he wanted to seem less eager than he really was, Mickey because, well, he had kind of expected to be down in his space the next time Gallagher showed up.

 

Mickey was posted up against the brick of the storefront, right leg bent back and holding his weight in place as he leisurely smoked, and didn’t even see Ian until he was _this close_ to Mickey’s body. “Shit,” Mickey coughed out, straightening his stance, “Weren’t you ever taught to not sneak up on people ‘round here?”

Ian shrugged, figuring that if Mickey had pulled a knife on him or something he would’ve quickly gotten out of the way. “Thought you said it was colder than a witch’s tit outside?”

“Yeah, well, a man’s gotta smoke, don’t he?”

Ian conceded with a nod, not even bothering to hide the stupid smile on his face. “You runnin’ the counter today?” Ian asks, his head jerking toward the door.

“Nah,” Mickey says after a pull on his cigarette, the smoke slowly spilling from his lips, “Down in the basement till close.”

“They keep you in the basement? What are you, Frankenstein’s monster?”

Mickey lets out a breathy laugh at that, shaking his head and running his thumb over his lower lip, “Nah, man. Just where they got all the shit.”

 

They fall into a silence and Mickey can’t help but wonder why the fuck he’s talking to Gallagher, but he ultimately figures you reap what you sow. And apparently having a fucking smoke with the kid was sowing up a whole shitstorm of conversations.

Mickey takes a final drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the side, smoke slipping out with his words as he says, “Gotta get back to the grind.”

+

Mickey’s in the basement, _London Calling_ cassette at maximum volume (which, unfortunately, isn’t all that loud), his pace slower than usual due to the lack of work– he blames this on the goddamn blizzard that’s decided to hang around Chicago for the last few days.

He’s got his hands in a dark bag, left hand holding the canister and right hand using a can opener to pry the top off. He thinks that this role was from little old lady Candy (she most definitely used to be a hooker (probably still is)) and isn’t quite sure what to expect to see when he develops the film. Mickey silently hopes that it isn’t a bunch of saggy old dicks and shit like that.

He manages to get the stubborn top off and his right hand searches for the scissors that were hanging out somewhere at the bottom of the bag; only a tiny, ‘Fuck,’ escaping his lips when he accidentally rams the palm of his hand into the blades. Then Mickey’s snipping at the film, knowing he’s making perfect cuts, and afterwards grabs the film reel; easily slipping the strip into the contraption and turning the cogs over and over again.

Mickey’s feet are tapping to _Jimmy Jazz_ as he’s on his stool, kind of swiveling back and forth as he hits the end of the film and cuts off the plastic core. He puts together the developing tank mumbling, “Police came looking for Jimmy Jazz,” the snap of the lid almost a wave of relief before he yanks his arms out of the bag and scratches at his nose.

He moves to the barrels of chemicals and grabs a measuring cup, filling enough to cover the reel and sticking a thermometer in it; 72º on the dot. Mickey’s pouring the developer into the tank when the revolving door whips around, a surprised, “ _Holy shit_ , it’s dark in here,” startling him.

Mickey closes his eyes for a moment before harshly asking, “The fuck you doin’ down here?” He pauses for a moment and then tacks on, “And obviously it’s gonna be dark, it’s a fucking _darkroom_.” He kind of finds it funny that he’s agitating the chemicals while this shitheel is agitating him.

“Told that old guy at the counter that I needed to talk to you,” Gallagher provides, stepping further into the room and looking around, wondering _why the fuck_ there are red lights everywhere.

“Fuckin’ Toby,” Mickey groans, stopping his motions and turning to find Ian. He silently curses Toby, knowing that he’d let anyone down here. Not that Toby would know, or even give a shit, if this kid was here to stab Mickey for whatever reason. Nope, Toby would just mop up the blood and hire the next ex-con that some PO has waiting in line, assuring him that ‘ _This one hasn’t murdered anyone_.’

 

“What are you doin’?” Ian asks, his face now inches from Mickey.

Mickey flinches back a little at the sudden movement, his voice sour when he sarcastically says, “Bakin’ a cake. What does it look like I’m doin’?”

Ian glances down at Mickey’s hands gesturing to a weird black cylinder, then back up at Mickey. “It looks like you’re baking a cake.”

“Get out,” Mickey deadpans, his left hand pointing to the door.

“I’m bored.”

“Find a hobby,” he snorts, dumping out the developer into the sink and going back for the stop bath.

“I dunno,” Ian lilts, sidling up to Mickey’s left, “I think hanging around this sketchy store is hobby enough.” Mickey wants to shoot a sharp reply back to the redhead, but stops when Ian’s face contorts into bewilderment, “The fuck you listening to?”

And Mickey’s thinking all sorts of cusses when he hears the undeniable lyrics of _Lover’s Rock_ , and he’s _exponentially_ grateful that the room is dark because, yeah, his face is definitely flushing. “It’s a fuckin’ classic, man,” Mickey reasons, repeating his steps to the sink to dump out the chemicals and replace them with fixer.

Ian makes a noise like he doesn’t quite agree, but shuts up nonetheless. Well, for as long as it takes to find Mickey’s stool and poke around the materials scattered around the counter. “What is this?” he asks, holding up the dark bag and letting the scissors, can opener, and film scraps fall to the floor.

“Christ,” Mickey sharply says, “It’s a goddamn dark bag.”

“And this?”

Mickey looks over his shoulder again, says, “Grain focuser,” and then wonders why the fuck he hadn’t forcibly removed the carrot top yet. Surely he’s overstayed his unwelcome welcome.

He somehow gets through the first wash and the hypo clear in silence (Mickey kind of thinks some higher power was at work with that one. Like Bono or something.) and lets out a low sigh when he puts the open tank in the sink for a five minute wash and Ian’s mouth is moving again.

“So what’s your deal?” he asks, quickly rephrasing his question when Mickey gives him a warning glance, “Like, your family and shit.” Mickey grunts and Ian’s fingers are tapping mercilessly on his thigh, mind racing to keep some sort of conversation running. “Mine’s a bitch,” Ian kind of laughs, “Five siblings and Frank the Plank. Shit’s fucked up, man. We actually dug up a body out of our yard one summer; think it was my great aunt, not too sure, though. You got any siblings?”

Mickey nods his head once and moves to pick up the things scattered on the floor; mostly irritated but kind of okay with the company.

But definitely 98% irritated.

Mickey wouldn’t say anything, though, because _sometimes_ he’s a good person.

 

“So...” Ian tentatively, quietly, unsurely began because he honestly couldn’t get a good read on _anything_ about Mickey, “I was wondering if you’d ever, y’know, want to get something to eat? With me?”

Mickey turned back to the redhead, a cross between confusion and aversion on his face. “ _What_?”

Ian slowly stood, carefully thought out his choice of words as he watched the can opener and scissors shift in Mickey’s hand. “Just, like, hanging out,” he lamely explained.

“Can’t,” was all Mickey said in response and Ian couldn’t help but think that Mickey drank a six pack of apathy for breakfast everyday.

“Why not?” Ian asked, stepping closer to the boy, briefly admiring the light stubble that lined his jaw.

Mickey shrugged before walking over to the trash can and dumping the scraps, tools being dropped onto the counter. “I could go into detail, but I’m not going to,” he gruffly said.

“No offense,” Ian said in the way where he really wasn’t worried about Mickey’s feelings, “But you’re a stubborn son of a bitch.”

Mickey shrugged before leaning his body against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, “Eh, whatever. I’m pretty hard to offend.”

 

There’s a well rehearsed disinterest in the atmosphere, and Ian wonders if that’s what time gave to Mickey. Mickey, on the other hand, knows full and well that time had given him that down-to-a-science-impassivity.

 

Ian smirked to himself and shoved his hands into his coat pockets, said, “Maybe some other time,” in a disinterested tone and made his way out of the darkroom; leaving a dubious Mickey in his wake. When Ian’s out of the room and taking the stairs by two to the ground floor, he thinks to himself that Mickey was like a crotchety old man.

A _hot_ crotchety old man.

But a crotchety old man nonetheless.

 

Ian also thinks that maybe he should’ve been more direct and went with something like, ‘Hey, you wanna have an adult play date?’ but then hastily decided that he was lucky to not have the life beaten out of him. Just because _he’s_ gay and okay and out with it _doesn’t_ mean that other people are.

But Ian’s always been good at pushing boundaries.

+

Mickey feels completely drained by the time he’s shoving the door to his shotgun shack of an apartment open; his mind only concerned with reaching his bed. He drops his keys on the nearby kitchen table– complete with a stack of old newspapers under one leg to keep it from wobbling– and kicks his shoes off prior to peeling off his jeans and draping them over a chair. He routinely grabbed a chilled beer from the small fridge in the corner and crossed into his bedroom; dropping himself face first into the dark sheets.

 

It takes him a few minutes to collect himself, but Mickey eventually rolls to his back and scoots up the bed so he could drink his beer without spilling it all over himself. And, much to Mickey’s chagrin, his thoughts immediately travel to Gallagher.

 

Gallagher the fucking stupidly hot carrot top.

 

“Ian,” Mickey slowly said, allowing his lips to fit around the syllables like he was trying the name on for size. His nose scrunched up at it and he decided he preferred Gallagher.

 

Mickey knew what Gallagher had been doing the times he had come into the shop. He knew that the dumb redhead was coming onto him and being a cheeky little shithead, trying to talk to Mickey about his life and asking if he wanted to go get some food; and, fuck, Mickey wasn’t dumb, he knew what Gallagher wanted.

Not that he was going to give it to him.

 

Yeah, Mickey was gay and he was well aware of it (believe that Mickey knew, _oh boy_ , did he know), but that didn’t mean he was going to run around town and let people know. This was the South Side after all.

 

The only person who knew Mickey was gay was Mandy. And that was only because she guessed one day after they ran into some guy that was in juvie with Mickey a few years back. Mickey hadn’t really thought anything of it, but afterwards Mandy said, ‘ _That guy wanted to jump your fuckin’ bones, Mick_.’ And Mickey played dumb, replying with a slow, ‘ _What_?’ He internally cringed when Mandy stopped them at an empty street corner, eyes wide when she shout-whispered, ‘ _He was looking at you like you were the greatest fuck of his life_.’ When Mandy was met with a heavy silence and no eye contact from Mickey her eyes widened even more, lips parting in realization, ‘ _No! Are you? You totally are!_ ’

 

Though at the time Mickey feared that Mandy would let it slip to someone, it was also a giant relief to have let that secret out to at least one person. The crushing weight of hiding part of himself from every person he passed had lessened, ever so slightly, but enough to feel like he could push himself up for air.

 

Mickey ran his free hand up his face and through his unruly hair, a long sigh leaving his lips as the darkness pulled him closer with each moment. (He might’ve hated the blizzard that’s been lingering entirely too long, but he had to admit that it made for good sleeping weather.)

 

Taking one last long pull of the cheap beer before dropping the glass onto his carpeted floor Mickey knew, he knew full and well that he was going to make this way harder than it needed to be.


End file.
